


The Taste of Apples

by rosekay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Food, M/M, Season/Series 03, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About Dean, and food, and Sam, but mostly food. A happy ending that might have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of Apples

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2007. Follows up and fits in near the end of Sevenfists' [Life as We Know It](http://sevenfists.livejournal.com/113120.html#cutid1).

Sam left on a Monday. The sky fitfully spat clusters of rain at the windows. When they stood on either side of the threshold, Dean could feel the damp air sweep in as Sam's hair - still stubbornly stupid as it had always been - was slowly plastered against his skull in dark, sulky licks. There was a smudge of ink on one cheekbone. Dean thought about wiping it off, but it was a pretty gay thought, and the rain would do his job for him anyway. Sam had his retarded girly messenger bag slung casually over one shoulder, the strap digging into his jacket. His mouth was arranged in an uncertain twist, as if he were afraid Dean were going to do something drastic: run out naked into the rain or something, start hankering for his _own_ messenger bag.

Dean said, "At least bring a goddamn umbrella with you," and shoved it into Sam's hand.

The corner of Sam's mouth lifted. "Dean," he said, in the voice and register he reserved for library patrons under twelve and skittish witnesses they needed to browbeat into spilling their trauma.

"Shut up," Dean grit out with finality, before frickin' puppies started frolicking and flowers spontaneously sprouted in the individual biome that was Sam's hair. And Christ, where did he even learn that word. It was probably a good thing Sam and his library germs were on their way out. Really good thing.

"It's - " Sam paused and adjusted the strap, the line of his jaw sharp like it'd been when he was asking for something he knew Dad would turn down. "I'll be back in a week."

Dean bit his lip. Sam had always looked to the cities, ever since he was big enough to peer out the car window with more than sleep hazy eyes. Looked to the cities and the coasts, eyes rarely on the road, skating right over places like Reunion.

"It's just to get information, Dean," he'd said, absurdly calm. "If I can keep access to these networks, it'll help us." He looked very serious, earnest. Fucking Sam, with his wide, sincere mouth and clear eyes. "With - you know."

He talked about leaving, about going back, as if it were just a Sunday picnic, a vague, cheerful memory of denser sidewalks and older neighborhoods. What Dean remembered was a haze of a drive, everyone else on the road suddenly the slowest, most miserable excuses for humanity impossible, ever line on the pavement pointing forward to a hospital that seemed to get further away and back to his brother bleeding out in the back seat, awful wet breaths and dense smell that Dean would probably remember until the day he finally kicked it. He remembered waiting, which was even worse. He remembered -

"Dean?"

Sam had his concerned face on again, and Dean realized his own was hot, skin stretched too tight. Sam looked like he would do whatever Dean asked him right now. Looked like Dean could just say, stay, don't go back there, come back in, you're wet, and Sam would just nod and dump his bulky bag on the floor, step in out of the rain. But that was pretty much gayer than puppies and flowers, so instead he bit his lip and tightened his hand on the door frame.

"You're going to be late."

He bought the asparagus that night, but by Tuesday evening it was already limp, the tips slimy. He stood in front of the refrigerator, ruined asparagus in hand, and felt his lower lip start to go. Fucking ridiculous. The stalks were stiff too against his palms, so between snapping off the ends and the drooping tips, he'd only be left with tiny little green carcasses to cook. Dean had had a rough day. He couldn't deal with tiny green carcasses. There was one message from Sam on his cell phone, Sam who sounded breezy and unconcerned.

 _Hey, man, just me. Everything's fine. You'd probably laugh at everyone 'cause you're a jerk. Uh_ , Sam's voice hitched a little, _just don't burn the house down, ok?"_

Burn the house down, like _Dean_ would be the one to do it. He wasn't the goddamn baker in the family.

He surveyed the kitchen, its lonely little contours and the fucking girly curtains that were still fluttering in the breeze. The fruit basket they kept on the dining room table was empty, and so were half the cabinets. He had really wanted that asparagus, hadn't really thought to buy anything else. His stomach rumbled helpfully as he looked. Dean glared down at it.

The fridge's other compartments turned up four slightly stale slices of bread that he lathered with butter and popped in the microwave, a lonely apple with a leaf still hanging on gamely and dirt ground into the gentle dip where the stem curved, and half a pint of ice cream he'd gotten weeks ago and forgotten about. He angrily scrubbed at the apple under the stutter of the tap and dug into the ice cream, feeling irritable and maybe a little bit bloated, even though Dean would murder the first fucker to hint at it. His eyes strayed again to the calendar. Jesus, he was pathetic. And since when did librarians do anything other than commune with dust bunnies and glare at you? He imagined them all sitting around in some sort of demented circle, enough tweed to supply England through the next world war. The asparagus was still in a sad, little heap on the counter by the time he stuffed the last of the toast into his mouth, closing his eyes around the butter, as the day's last sunshine flooded in through the window. He ate enough ice cream to give himself a stomach ache later that night.

Groaning, Dean sullenly boiled a pot of Sam's stupid, fruity tea, which he had to dig out of a little black, porcelain container he usually never went within ten feet of, and went to bed, hating the empty dip in the sheets beside him, his eyes stupidly itchy, the moonlight too bright.

Wednesday morning, he burnt the coffee while staring out the window like an idiot, and then the toast while he was trying to salvage the coffee. Dean sat down at the table, sipping the nuclear mess he'd managed to produce, and half-heartedly poked at the black slab on his plate. He'd eaten the last of the middle slices the night before and had to use the ends of the loaf. It made a weird, scraping sound against the ceramic, and Dean was about ninety percent sure he could toss the thing in the sink and make it float. Disgusted, he dumped it into the trash can, which was overflowing already with Sunday night's pasta experiment gone wrong. By the time he'd swept everything up and viciously heaved the bag outside, his sour coffee was _burnt_ and cold, and Dean was seriously ready to cry. No, he was seriously ready to kill something. His stomach chose to rumble ominously as he sped out the door, absurdly thinking about Sam's over decorated pancakes and the way he'd let Dean eat all of his messed up cake experiments for breakfast, leaving extra dollops of frosting on the platter.

He was jittery at work because of the shitty coffee and the even more foregone toast, fucking up on stupid things until the foreman started giving him the eye. The Mexicans were trash talking him with curled lips and explosive chuckles as usual, and he'd never been more goddamn glad to take a lunch break in his entire life.

Which was when he realized he hadn't even _brought_ lunch with him in the hurry he'd been in that morning. He stood staring at his empty bag, fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically. Dean liked his food. Lived for his food. On the road, it was instant pleasure, something to savor at all levels - no real preparation and no real expectations either. You didn't hold your plate of cheese fries to any loyalties. Dean remembered living on fumes and coffee for days while a hunt was going, and the amazing, endless first bite of real food afterwards, sweet or salty, he never cared, as long as it was plenty. He'd never had high standards, but he liked his flavors, liked imagining the texture of each thing before it went into his mouth. Dean was a certified expert in scrounging for free food wherever he went. He knew exactly how long to stay before they started giving you the eye, and exactly how much you could take before getting out would be a problem. He knew each state, each county by their specialty hors d'oeuvres, could eyeball platter sizes and probable servings just stepping into a room. If they gave out degrees in that shit, he'd have a goddamn doctorate. Sometimes, the harder won it was, the more satisfying, and others, the fun was all in the obliviousness of others.

On this job, he'd unlearned some of that, grown to rely on having something at hand every day. He'd been dreaming of his customary sandwich since nine that morning, thinking about the way the meat would slide thick and cold and savory across his tongue, the watery crunch of the lettuce, the vaguely obscene pulpy slide of the tomatoes over his tongue to the back of his throat. He'd even been looking forward to the soggy patches on the bread where the tomatoes had soaked through, and the crusts that he saved for last. Sometimes, when Sam was having a spectacularly gay day, he'd even bag the tomatoes separately so Dean could have both perfectly dry bread and enough sarcasm fodder for at least a week. Actually, Sam didn't really do that anymore.

He sulkily turned an eye toward the Mexicans, who were still laughing at him, casually weighing his chances of getting in on whatever their lunch order was. Probably better to go hungry. Usually, he could count on Fernando to come through in the clutch, but not today, tied up with hospital bills and immigration disputes. Dean was on his own. He swiped a hand across his forehead, tracking dirt and sweat, before heading to the local deli.

The sandwich girl looked hungover and irritable, silver nose stud flashing aggressively at him and a sour twist of her mouth that reminded him of Sam in one of his moods. He didn't even notice she'd gotten out wheat bread until the turkey and half the lettuce were already on there.

"Uh," Dean began, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. "I - "

"Yes?"

Her expression could only loosely be called a smile. Really loosely.

"White bread?" he managed in a really pussy tone he regretted right away.

The girl's mouth tightened even further until she looked like she was sucking on the mother of lemons, definitely a Sam expression. She dumped the whole setup into the trash can as if she were disposing of a body, and whipped out the white bread.

"Anything else you'd like to add, pretty boy?"

Dean was offended on principle - he was a goddamn construction worker; he didn't need to defend his masculinity, but the girl looked frickin' scary. She could probably take someone's eye out with those hair spikes alone. While listening to dyke music and guys in eyeliner. He cautiously shook his head as his stomach growled. Her eyes slid down, and she actually smirked at him. He folded an arm around his stomach uncomfortably. Bitch. Maybe he could belch in the store after he ate the sandwich.

By the time he noticed she'd gone for mustard over mayo, he was too tired - not scared, _tired_ \- to correct her. That, and when he opened his mouth, she gave him the sort of look he imagined rabbits got right before their throats were ripped out by wolves. Dean was not a rabbit. He took his sandwich and ran.

The mustard was sour and soaked into everything, ruining the crisp lettuce, poisoning the tomatoes, and smearing itself messily over all the meat. He didn't even get a decent mouthful of soggy bread. Dean sat looking sadly at the remains of sandwich, still hungry, before he just gave up and tossed it, straightening to go back to work.

He crawled back into the house later that night. The fridge was just as desolate as it'd been before. He could imagine cobwebs in the cabinet. All he'd wanted was that stupid sandwich, but the psycho deli girl had to ruin it and waste his money. He thought about ordering out, but imagining the wait and shelling out more cash, plus the grease when he had a kitchen right there, was not helping. Dean stared at the windows. At the fridge. At the lonely dark counters. Maybe his shoulders shook just a _little_ bit. He'd knife the first fucker to mention it. Except there was usually only Sam around to make fun of him, and it was weird how you got used to having someone at your side all the time. He remembered the years with just him and Dad, long silences and longer absences, something stretched wire tense and ready to snap between them at every wrong mention. He remembered them, but he couldn't imagine living that again, not when he'd gotten used to having his back watched, to waking up with his coffee handed to him just right, knowing whose bed he'd fall asleep in and how much of a cramp he'd have in the morning.

Dean missed muffins on the counter, and cakes in the fridge, missed health casseroles and tofu stir fry he only liked when he was trashed, missed meat loaf that had half the right amount of salt and none of the gristle. He could almost smell it all just looking, but there wasn't anything there.

He ended up slumping into bed with half a bag of chips and reheated leftovers he'd managed to find squashed in the back drawer. There were at least three different dishes mashed in there, but they all tasted uniformly of stale fridge. Even the beer - some gay import piss Sam had gotten - was off on his tongue, well more off than usual. Frowning, Dean went to sleep. His stomach growled again.

Thursday was his day off since they were in between sites. He slumped in bed for awhile enjoying the morning, the piddling sunshine, before the reminder of his miserable hunger made itself known again. Worse than fucking morning wood. Jerking off took much less effort.

"Shut the fuck up," he told his stomach. Christ, he was talking to his stomach.

"Grocery store. Right. Good." And to himself.

He mashed his forehead into the heel of his hand once, grabbed the keys and was out.

Dean loved grocery stores. He really, really did. He was in a better mood as soon as he had the cart in hand. He loved the way that everything was packaged neatly and shone under the florescent lights. He liked how things occasionally got a little messy and you had to dig for the perfect can or box or produce. He even liked searching for the dented cans with Dad back when they did that, crowing with victory each time he found one. Sam had gone on a retarded rant once about how the "ethnic" aisles were actually really disrespectful and how he hated shopping there. Probably picked it up in California. Who knew. Dean never bought that shit, but he liked looking at the Spanish rice and the Indian curry, the instant stir fry in its colorful boxes, the pad thai nestled, sauce and all, in bright squares of easy meals. He liked the spice aisle right next to it because it reminded him of holing up at Bobby's when they were little, he and Sam curled in the back room, where the beer and dog gave way to sage and sweet-bitter flowers, Sam's fingers tapping out a rhythm on Dean's arm as they cleaned guns or went over homework. Pastor Jim's kitchen smelled like that too, a sea of calm away from his parishioners and the serious fucking armory he had tucked in the back. Sam liked the spices. Dean liked the guns. But he was a flexible guy. He'd take good memories when they came.

Dean had a routine. He usually started in the produce section because that was his favorite, everything fresh and spritzed to look dewy, ready to be plucked off their plastic shelves. Their local store usually had an attempted farmer's market thing going on, which failed spectacularly on pretty much every level, but Dean liked squinting at the pathetic little bits of plastic straw and and wooden baskets. It calmed him.

He ran his hands over the vegetables, testing peppers for firmness, feeling out the bumps on the cucumbers. He liked how the peppers smelled, sharp scent right in your nose if you bent just a little. He liked how smooth they were against his fingers, sloping curves and stubborn stalks, promise of a good meal. He hummed to himself as he flapped out plastic bags, pushing the cart along. A cute redhead in the aisle over gave him a shy smile and a ducked head when he caught her looking. Dean grinned, stroking his pepper. He totally still had it. He moved on to the lettuce. Sam liked to stir fry the Romaine stuff with garlic sometimes, or save it for salad, but Dean was not down with that shit, and it would probably be slimy by Monday anyway. Jesus, Monday.

He gave the corn a once over, fresh green husks and tufts of hair, brought one up to his face to sniff. The sweet scent of it was good. He could imagine sinking his teeth into the kernels, little burst of juice on his tongue, the temperature just right, a nice slab of butter flavoring it all up. He had to close his eyes to preserve the image a little longer, and when he opened them again, there was a thin, gaunt faced grandmother giving him a supremely disapproving look. It looked an awful lot like Sam's Dean, are you seriously hitting on this girl? expression. Christ, everyone was sucking lemons these days. And it wasn't like the corn's virtue was in danger. He still stripped them with clinical competence, keeping one eye on the grandmother, resolutely not giving in to his urge to give them a little extra love and time.

The actual lemons weren't half bad, ripe and yellow with their sharp, tempting scent. He thought about squeezing them over salmon, which Sam made sometimes when there was a fresh batch in the fish market, prettily pink and with delicate white lines of fat. The crust would be crumbly and perfect, pale flesh decorated with little black specks of pepper and the bite of the lemon. His mouth was watering just standing there, fingers working rhythmically over the bumps of citrus. He knew this was a good idea, the grocery store. He was feeling better already.

He skidded over to the apples next, picking out a bag full of them, taking his time to squeeze and test all the nectarines and peaches next to them. The peaches bruised so easily, like real flesh, yielding right under his fingers. There were speckled dinosaur plums on sale today, purple and yellow like a goddamn kid's show, but they looked good, translucent thin barely holding in the juice. He could smell the sticky sweetness of them from feet away. He got two bags of those, figured Sam could find some gay baking recipe for the rest of them somehow.

Huddling in his jacket, Dean moved on to the meats. He eyed flank steaks and chicken tenders, chuckled to himself over the rack of sausages until he noticed the kid who was staring, a little goggle eyed.

Dean frowned.

"What?"

"Nothin'," mumbled the kid.

The situation called for a little De Niro. Dean straightened his shoulders in his jacket. "You lookin' at me?"

The kid's face twisted up like a puckered fruit. "You're _lame_ ," he proclaimed, and ran off.

Dean felt obscurely hurt, but he shrugged it off, going back to the red loops and bulging packages of the sausages. Whatever. _Kids_ were lame.

He ended up picking up pork tenderloin, and some of that Kashi cereal shit that cost a fortune. Sam ate it religiously though when he could, and it was already at the counter with him by the time Dean noticed. Not like he'd picked it out or anything. He stocked up on a little couch food, briefly looking at the bright row of candles by the register before shaking himself out of it in disgust. Christ. In retaliation, he found the biggest chocolate bar he could see, and planted it on the conveyor belt with a crinkle of plastic and a solid thump. The clerk eyed him with something like alarm.

Dinner was ok that night. He turned on the TV for company, then felt embarrassed, and turned it back off again. But Dean had meat - real honest to god _meat_ \- in his mouth, filling up his cheeks, savory juice running down his throat. He'd left it in the pan a little too long - it had blackened around the edges, but it was still good going down, tender, salty and rich with the ginger sauce he'd made, squishing deliciously between his teeth. He groaned at the last bite, holding onto the fork for just a second before letting it slip out with a scrape against his teeth. He'd forgotten the garlic, and everything was duller without it, but he couldn't even dredge up the energy for more than general melancholy. After a pause, he took a last lick at the sauce and contemplated the table. Dean thought about making more, but vetoed it. He hated cooking for himself. At least Dad used to be there to grunt some sort of affirmative or belch to indicate his stomach was full. The table felt lopsided without someone else there. He chugged the beer down with it, burping loudly and half expecting Sam to shoot him a look of disgust.

"Fucking pussy," he told it quietly, no one in the room to hear it.

There was another message from Sam, something about coding systems, and hey, maybe there was a hunt a couple towns over, and, I found this new recipe, Dean, maybe...?

"Disgrace to your own balls," Dean told the phone, before playing the message again. Just to make sure he hadn't missed anything about that hunt.

He went for a long run, no music, just legs pumping and cool night air, until his muscles burned pleasantly and he had to grind to a stop on asphalt, breath heaving unsteadily, hands on his sweaty thighs. He walked part of the way back, stitches in his side.

Dean's stomach was still a little empty when he fell into bed that night, unhappy beneath his hand.

He fell asleep with a frown.

He dreamed, for the first time in awhile, of that night in the barn. His face was pressed into Sam's sweaty neck, pulse fluttering erratically against Dean's cheek, and Sam's blood was hotly pressed all along his body, the awful heave of naked ribs and the answering pain in Dean's chest. He was empty inside, as if he had been cut open, not Sam, empty and hungry, everything that was Dean scattered onto that killing floor like straw, Sam gone beside him.

Friday, the sun was blistering before it was even properly up, and Dean groaned his way out of bed, not really awake until noon or so. By then, he was bright pink over his tan from working outside, with about a million extra freckles that looked retarded when he caught a glimpse of himself. He banged up his wrist, the joint ugly and swollen, made worse after he worked through the pain. He was tender all over by the time he got home, coated with sweat that had dried and soaked and dried again. The air inside the house wrapped around him like a blanket no matter how hard he fiddled with the stupid A/C unit sloping from the back window. It twirled anemically, sending tempting little bursts of cool air right along Dean's sweating face, his hot throat, the whole miserable overheated length of his body, but it pulled back every time like the biggest fucking tease in the universe, thong showing over skintight jeans and only a little shake of the ass as good bye after ten minutes of meaningful conversation conducted with hips and thighs and bad music. Not that that had ever happened to him. Or that he was comparing his fucking A/C unit to a _bar slut_ , Jesus Christ.

He slopped down his leftovers as soon as he stumbled out of a cool shower, jerked off rough and clumsy with his left hand, and fell asleep, mind stubbornly blank and breath coming in shallow gasps through the heat.

Saturday morning, he almost dropped the toilet seat on his _cock_ while shuffling around the bathroom. Dean stared in disbelief at the near miss, and resisted the urge to just crawl back into bed and call it a _week_. Foreman was going to kill him though if he didn't show up, so he bought himself donuts on the way to work, smearing his mouth with sugar and soft, giving pastry that melted a little on his tongue, sat wonderfully heavy in his stomach. He was still licking chocolate off his fingers when he got to the site, a little in love with the way it slid, easy and rich, around his mouth, the pleasant memory of taste still lingering.

There was an irritated tap on the window.

Garcia. Part of the crew. He jerked his head at the remains of Dean's donut, the smears of it still on his lips, and freaking _smirked_ , making the _you two done yet?_ sign with his hands. Dean felt affronted on behalf of the pastry. He was trying to enjoy his sugar goddamit. He needed _peace_. He had to take a moment to quell the urge to punch someone in the face.

Work got out early when one of the machines sputtered, ground out horrible wrenching sounds, and nearly took off Dean's head. He only remembered a whirring screech dangerously close to his ear and a shudder that ran through the ground all the way up his spine before the world went white for a moment and he ended up on his ass in the dirt, breathing harshly through his dry mouth, heart jackhammering in his chest.

"Bartlett, you idiot," the foreman roared. But then his face acquired a nervous tinge, and he started edging out words like _liability_ and _insurance_. Dean was pretty sure the guy was this close to complaining that Dean wasn't some illegal he could just foist off the face of the earth if something happened.

He smirked, went home, and made himself burgers. The grill sizzled companionably, and his neighbor gave him a wave as the smell drifted out with the smoke. Dean smiled to himself. Bitch probably wanted a taste. Dean gave a brief nod towards being neighborly, having mercy, but the thought of giving up one of his perfectly grilled patties was too much. He had enough trouble feeding Sam, who for all his pussy health brands and picky habits, could still down about half a cow without really blinking. Or, he would blink, innocently, all, what, Dean? What are you staring at? And the little bitch gave _him_ shit for enjoying his food a little. A man had to have his food if nothing else. It was completely reasonable. Sam was just crazy.

The buns were a little burnt, and the meat itself seared within an inch of its life because he couldn't seem to keep track of anything these days. He crammed half of the first one into his mouth right out in the backyard, spraying bits of bun in front of him, his elbows lodged comfortably against his thighs, the sun setting warmly over grill and yard just beyond. Lettuce was a little limp, everything a little charred in his mouth, but he knew he should just suck it up and stop bitching about it, even if it made his throat tight with irritation. It was nice to just sit down and eat something, nothing else on the horizon.

The house felt empty when he edged his way back in, so he found something with girls prancing around in their underwear and singing on TV, and settled down on the couch with the last of the six pack. It had "pussy" in the title, which Dean thought was unfair advertising, since it was mostly girls crying, acting like idiots, and singing really badly while puking their guts out on camera after partying. Sam had taken his laptop with him, but Dean could probably find a porn channel or two if he really tried. He was tired though, and strangely mesmerized by the bouncing flesh on the screen, made better when he just muted the goddamn thing. He was full, lazy with the buzz from the beer, and his eyelids seemed to weigh a ton, so he just settled down and closed them.

Sam was wearing that fucking stupid apron, standing around pots that were all bubbling cheerfully. Dean looked to his left and there was a whole, obscenely long table practically groaning with food like something out of the Middle Ages, or at least some stupid tacky Middle Ages reproduction with awful faked accents and lots of cleavage. There was an actual _pig_ with a frickin' apple in its mouth slumped in the middle, its skin gleaming golden brown and salty sweet, a plate full of cracklin' right next to it. Seared steaks that were still steaming and a half of a roast chicken, its meat curled back prettily. Sam's lemon salmon, rich with citrus and pepper on a bed of green beans with thin, crispy looking fries on hand. Whole _plates_ of thick, soggy cheese fries, the starch swimming lazily in globs and globs of still melting cheese, complicated nests that smelled like heaven. There were burgers, hot dogs, sandwiches piled feet high, a sub that was giving him serious inadequacy issues that spanned the whole table. It was brimming with sausage and pepperoni and good ham, smeared with mayo, not mustard, just like Dean liked it. Fruit and desserts to the far right, with casseroles, stir fry, mashed potatoes occupying the middle space. There was good stew on the stove - he could smell it. Slices of white bread were there right next to the pig, crustless with a jar of pristine, smooth peanut butter right next to them, completely free of crumbs or any other sacrilege. He looked further down, and there were the rolls, still steaming. He bet if he ripped one open, the bread would just _part_ , little puff of hot hair in his face and soft enough to just soak in the butter.

"Dean," Sam said, with a guileless wide smile splitting his face. "Baby, I - "

Dean squinted at the sunlight in his eyes. He'd forgotten to drawn the blinds. The reality show had turned into some scary looking middle aged woman telling him how to do yoga. He rubbed his belly, empty, and wiped the drool off his chin.

"What the fuck."

His watch said 10: 00 am. Fuck, he was late for work.

He remembered the table and Sam, with the _apron_ , calling him - _baby?_ He was never eating before bed ever again. The phone was blinking when he shuffled over, scratching his ass lazily, and the foreman's voice streamed out when he pressed the button.

"Bartlett. Goddamit, Bartlett. You're not, uh, you're not - you're ok, right? No hospital. Don't fucking call me back. Just checking."

The next one was a little more anxious.

"Do you have a concussion? You little fucker. If you have a concussion, and you're just passed out somewhere, I swear to God I will - never mind. Just call me."

Dean stared at the machine.

"Bartlett? BARTLETT. Ok, the equipment's still down. Why don't you stay home for the day? Rest up." That part sounded actually physically painful to say. "Your ass better be here Tuesday or I'm gonna have it."

"Huh," said Dean, running a hand through his hair. It still stuck up in the back, but it looked like his week was getting better already.

He wandered back to the kitchen. Fridge was full, and so were the cabinets, after his shopping trip, but he couldn't decide on anything. He tore into a package of Sam's Oreos, cramming whole cookies into a tall glass of milk before draining it with the chocolate and cream sludge inside, crumbs spraying everywhere. Afterwards, he sat on the couch and felt sick.

He tried making pancakes a little while later when his stomach had calmed down, but he'd forgotten to take the syrup out of the fridge, so it was still cold and disgusting, not nearly sweet enough in his mouth. He looked around, hopeful. Slim pickings. The Oreos made him want to hurl. He thought about just tossing them, but ended up folding the package and stuffing it behind all of Sam's other stupid snacks, which hadn't really changed since he was about ten years old.

He came to his revelation while lazily jerking off on the couch, his legs spread, and cock bobbing between them, Sam's long back and Sam's wide mouth in his mind.

Dean wanted cake.

He wasn't a baking man. That pussy shit was for Sam, but he really, really wanted cake, wanted soft center to sink his teeth into, frosting and sprinkles and the whole deal. Or pie, he could do pie too, steaming in his mouth, sweet enough to make up for the syrup and everything else this whole frickin' week. So he didn't really bake. It was just some flour and shit. How hard could it be?

Really goddamn hard, it turned out.

He could tell Sam really _loved_ cooking, in a way that almost freaky, went about it with the same intent he did with everything else, bent on success or nothing. Dean was ok at it, enough to satisfy his own stomach, but Sam hummed while he stirred things, did stupid awkward half dances in the kitchen while he was checking on things, without even realizing it. Dean was too embarrassed for him even to bring it up. They'd run into a witch once, he and Dad, who cooked curses into her pies, a regular fairy tale bitch, luring the kids in with the smell of something good in the oven, and to their deaths, mostly awful, all around that last bite of pastry. Dean had pumped her full of shot with relish, but sometimes he wondered if Sam did the same thing, long fingers so deft with pots, pans, seasoning, touching everything before they went into their places, teasing out flavors and shapes for the table. Things bitter when he was jealous, sweeter when he was happy, the thrill of survival in his cakes, sweetness of a childhood memory in his pies, everything he cooked so brimming with _Sam_ , it was hard to eat them without thinking of his stupid, gay apron and his face, all focus, teeth worrying his lip.

Dean thought about that for awhile, felt like a total fucking pussy, and went back to work.

About an hour in, he'd given in, eyeing the stupid apron furtively. At least it wasn't pink or frilly, and it was probably freaking huge since it fit Sam.

"I swear to God I will jerk off, drink beer, and fart every goddamn hour, on the hour, after I take this off," Dean told himself when he finished tying the strings. It didn't even fit right, going down past his knees, and sort of loose in the chest, because apparently Sam either had _boobs_ or shoulders the width of a freaking mountain. He was itchy, uncomfortable. _Unmanned._

It did protect him from when the oil splashed though, or when he added too much water to the mix and had to slop it out, realizing then that Sam usually used milk. Dean didn't use recipes. Dean didn't _need_ recipes. He'd put in four eggs, because he figured more eggs was always good, but then it was practically unstirrable no matter how much he strained, so he added more flour too, and water, dammit, milk. He was pretty sure he was missing something, but the thing was practically ready to crawl out of the bowl, so he vetoed other ingredients, which was right about when it just gave up on the bowl altogether, and sloshed itself all over Dean, the table and a pretty good portion of the floor.

"Fucking - "

He stood in the middle of the kitchen, which was a mess. Dirty bowls and spoons everywhere, batter where batter should never be, a little blackened patch on the far wall when he'd turned the stove on by accident that he'd have to scrub off later. Just stood there, his eyes itching a little. From the _heat_ , itching from the heat.

He wanted to something to shoot, something to _eviscerate_. He sort of wished cake would respond to a shotgun. Or do more than splatter itself all over him anyway.

The phone rang. It was Sam.

_Hey, we got out early, so I figured I'd just drive back tonight instead of waiting till the morning._

He sounded a little sleepy, voice soft.

"Ok," said Dean, trying to pretend he didn't have cake batter on his _eyebrow_ , what the hell. The apron suddenly felt like it weighed a million pounds.

_Dean?_

"Yeah?"

_You ok? You sound kinda weird, man._

Fucking Sam.

"Stop being a fucking pussy, and just don't crash that rental," he growled, and after a beat, "and get yourself a cup of coffee, you hear me?"

Sam just laughed and hung up.

Dean looked at the kitchen, which could probably be registered for a national disaster area, and at himself, himself in an _apron._ If he didn't move his ass, he'd never live this down. Hell, he'd never live this down anyway, but at least that was just in his own head. He didn't need Sam's smug face in the mix.

He went through two rolls of paper towels just mopping up the batter, filling up the trash can, which he dragged out, still in the apron. His neighbor, on his porch with a beer, a manly beer, and a manly sports game on the radio, gave him a weird look. Dean sort of wanted to die, or possibly shoot the fucker, so he ran back into the house.

He used up another roll disinfecting everything so it wouldn't be sticky and obvious, even going under the stove plates and the tops of the cabinets. The dishes were actually the quickest. He just stoppered the sink, squeezed in some detergent, and loaded it up with warm water, sloshing and clinking. They just needed a cursory scrub and rinse when he let out the water, but he didn't have that much time left. He barely remembered to turn the oven off, and there was the apron, still damningly covered in batter that was starting to crust.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Dean yanked it off, wrestling with the strings and shoved it under the sink, scrubbing with steel wool and Palmolive until the worst of the stains were off. He didn't have time for a wash cycle, so he just stuck it in the dryer on Low and prayed for the best.

Just in time, because that's when he heard Sam's pussy Japanese rental in the driveway, and the keys in the door.

Dean flipped on the TV, and flopped down on the couch, his heart still trying to beat itself out of his chest, going for casual. He'd never even gotten to eat his goddamn cake.

Sam paused in the doorway, staring.

"Dean, why are you watching a Dawson's Creek rerun?"

Dean could feel himself flushing right down to his chest. He crossed his arms defensively.

"You know what this is? I knew they made you a pussy in college."

The dark-haired girl on the screen was staring with dewy eyes at some guy with horrifically bad hair while the most pathetic piano music in the world played around them. Dean felt ashamed just to be in its presence.

Sam frowned at him, his face twisting up.

"Hey, I'm not the one _watching_ it."

"Fuck you," Dean shot back, something loosening in his chest. He could hear Sam puttering around the kitchen, and his throat seemed to close on him. Sam had gotten to be a little bit of a freak about his kitchen. Everything had to be in its place. Dean was suddenly dead sure he'd find every little smear of batter left, smell it from the doorway. Had he rearranged the spices? Had he gotten that spot on top of the refrigerator? Fuck, he'd forgotten to take the apron out of the dryer. If he had to explain to Sam what he'd actually been doing, he might as well just save himself the pain and eat a bullet. A minute passed, five. Nothing. He was home safe it seemed. He drummed his fingers nervously. The dark haired girl had moved on to staring moodily over the water. She was kind of cute, but whiny enough that Dean sort of hoped she'd just drown herself.

"Hey," Sam called, nearly giving him a heart attack. "I'm making a sandwich. You want one?"

"Make it, bitch!" Dean called, voice loose with relief. He could practically _hear_ Sam rolling his eyes.

It was a good sandwich, turkey, mayo and the last of the lettuce. He took half with just one bite, closing his eyes in bliss, munching away. When he opened them, Sam was staring.

"Did you not feed yourself when I was gone or something?"

Dean just narrowed his eyes only because his mouth was full. He settled for a finger.

Later, in bed, Sam curled a long arm around Dean's waist, his lips at the back of Dean's neck. It was pretty gay.

"Hey, seriously, you ok? You look stressed."

"Shut up," Dean mumbled. "I look frickin' _beautiful_."

Sam's laughter rumbled against him. "Insecure in your old age?"

Dean shot his elbow back into the softness of Sam's relaxed stomach. He was rewarded with a yelp and an arm crawling the rest of the way around him, manhandling him onto his back, Sam triumphantly straddling him, hair a total fucking mess.

"Your hair's stupid," he said.

Sam rolled his eyes, leaned down, and kissed him.

"You are so gay," Dean told him after they stopped for breath.

"Dean - "

Sam did that thing where he cut himself himself mid rant because he was so annoyed, his whole face crunching in on itself, lips thin. Dean leaned up to kiss them open, his hands sliding down Sam's shoulders.

"That was totally gayer," Sam assured him, biting lazily at Dean's neck like he was a freaking meal laid out on the table. The dream came to mind, and he blushed in spite of himself.

"What is this, a frickin' competition?"

Sam worked his way down like a pro, mouth wet on Dean's collarbone, on each of his nipples, on his stomach until he shuddered up, except Sam's hands were at his waist, his hips, keeping him pinned firmly.

"That's ok," Sam said blithely, almost dead pan, which meant Dean was in trouble. "I don't mind winning." Then he took his cock into his mouth, slick and ready and _tight_. One hand was still lazily stroking Dean's belly, calming him.

They played rock-paper-scissors over the wet spot.

"Are you _serious_?" Sam squawked, goggling.

"Take it like a man," Dean told him, balling his fist.

He lost, but didn't even care, resting his head back on the pillow, Sam drooling into his armpit, sprawled like a leech across Dean. Even the thud of his heart seemed painful in the quiet. This was it, he realized. And it was weird, doing this with someone he knew so well. Hadn't been the case most of the time, not even with Cassie. He could name all of Sam's scars, not just the one that made Dean's teeth ache still just looking at it, but all the little ones, major and minor that he'd picked up climbing trees, riding bikes, going out and doing fool things to piss off Dad. He knew which stupid reruns Sam would watch and which ones he'd take the Food Channel over, which girls on TV he was hard for, when he'd stop eating, how long it took him to get hungry, knew every inch of his hands, on guns, on pans, on Dean. He guessed somewhere in the back of his head, he'd always imagined either going out young or settling down eventually, with a nice girl, a little Miranda and maybe a little Ellen, who wouldn't give him shit, who would _know_. Except Sam was all of those things already, and maybe Dean had always had him. He was pleasantly full, the weight of his stomach dragging him into sleep, so he closed his eyes.

*

Dean explained the whole work accident thing, only to have Sam running hands through his hair like a goddamn mother hen. Does it hurt here? What about here? And here? Always with his stupid questions, never ending.

"I'm _fine_ ," he said irritably, batting the hands away. "Go bake me a cake, bitch."

Sam frowned again, and sent Dean out on a thousand stupid errands. He had a _list_. It was shameful. It was fucking degrading was what it was.

He patted the Impala sadly on his way out.

"You're better than this, baby."

He was buying stupid shit and fixing things until near sundown, when he rumbled angrily into the driveway.

The smell hit before he was even at the door, so mind numbingly savory he had to stop and give himself a moment. Sam answered dressed in his stupid apron, and the thing _still_ made Dean blush just looking at it.

Sam's face looked soft, open.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Dean said, wary, his mouth watering. Then he made a face because they sounded like a pair of thirteen year old girls getting ready for a date. He shouldered his way in, going straight for the kitchen. His mouth dropped.

Steak in the center of the table, a pile of steaming asparagus beside it, and mashed potatoes. Fries and ham and good roast, sweet potatoes to one side, cheerfully blushing, and green beans to another, sweetly fresh, not overcooked. A couple things were a little burnt, a little lopsided, but Dean was already at the table and digging in.

"You're disgusting," Sam told him fondly after he'd eviscerated at least a third of it. God, he was full, but he couldn't quite stop himself. There was ham and sweet potato mashing around in his mouth, and he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Shut up, you love me." He grinned, sweet potato smile, and Sam grimaced at him.

There was soup too, thickened just right, and then cake after the soup, with too much coconut and so sweet his teeth were bursting just tasting it.

"You gonna eat anything?" he said, mouth full.

"Hate to break it to you, Dean, but watching you eat isn't exactly _appetizing._ "

"Fuck you," Dean told him, spraying food that had Sam scuttling backwards in his chair with alarm. He glared when Dean laughed, but tucked in anyway, and they were quiet for awhile except for the sounds of food and silverware - and Jesus, they really did have honest to God _silverware_ \- and companionable silence.

When Dean collapsed into the bed, stuffed to the bursting, Sam's hands wandered slyly between his legs.

Dean stared at him, and laughed.

"All of that just to get in my pants? Aww, Sammy, you shouldn't have."

Sam slid up his body, grin about a mile wide.

"Well you know what they say, the quickest way to a man's heart is - "

"If you finish that sentence, you're never getting laid again."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever, it's not like I needed to, you're kind of a slut."

"Hey!"

"I tell it like I see it, Dean."

There wasn't really much he could say to that, so he just snuggled back into the pillow, comfortably heavy.

"Dean! _Dean_. You are _not_ falling asleep on me, man."

He didn't even open his eyes. "Shouldn't have fed me so much."

Sam made a noise like a dying elephant, and there was a hand between his legs, yanking his boxers down, curling around his cock, behind his balls.

Dean didn't whine, because he didn't, as a rule, whine. Ever. But he made a sort of embarrassing noise and jerked up.

"Seriously, Sammy, you just fed me a freaking seven course meal. Not taking anything up the ass tonight."

That stopped Sam in his tracks. When he opened his eyes, Sam's face was a portrait of horror. Dean laughed delightedly.

"Dean, you are _disgusting_. Oh my God. I can't believe you - "

Dean knocked him over sleepily.

"Fine, fine, how about a blowjob, big boy? I'll even let you slap my ass."

Sam looked like he was sucking on whatever lemons sucked on.

"Dean - "

Then he stopped talking. He didn't say much more for the rest of the night.

 

 

Tuesday, Dean found cookies tucked into his lunch. He rolled his eyes, but they were amazing, chewy and soft just like he liked them. He saved one for Fernando, licked his fingers and went back to work.

There was more cake when he got home, chocolate this time, so rich even he felt sick after two slices. Sam smiled at him dopily when Dean did the dishes. It was so goddamn sweet Dean had to throw the sponge at him.

Wednesday had lemon squares that melted in his mouth, all sweetness and bite of citrus. He could taste the sugar on his tongue hours later.

Thursday, Dean bought peaches, and there was cobbler for him that night, sweet and hot on his tongue. And a totally embarrassing scene he'd take with him to his deathbed involving the two of them tangled pleasantly up against the counter, bumping limbs companionably, Sam spooning pastry between his lips. Dean was fine with being fed though, so he just opened his mouth, and waited.

Friday, Sam made sour cream apple pie with cinnamon. It drifted all the way out to the driveway, thick and impossibly sweet.

"Jesus, do you even _work_?"

"What, you complaining?"

Sam actually had his hands on his hips, but the smile that played across his lips was all irony. Dean punched him in the shoulder, and thought, no.

He carefully cut himself a slice of the pie, the good apple smell spilling out of the crust along with steam and cinnamon sweetness. It was almost too hot on his tongue, but he didn't care, swallowing the steaming, sweet fruit and letting the crust linger in his mouth, sucking all the juice out of it before finally letting the dry remnants slide down his throat. He groaned into it, blissful and smitten.

Sam was staring again, when he opened his eyes.

"What?' Dean said belligerently, full of sugar and not anxious to be interrupted.

"Your mouth," Sam mumbled around his own bite, and reached over to thumb a stray bit of filling off of Dean's lips. His fingers lingered over Dean's chin, the corner of his mouth, barely touching, and then sliding inside. Dean gave them a good suck, tasting salt and cinnamon and just a little bit of apple. Sam's breath hitched when he did, and his chair scratched closer, one hand coming up to cup Dean's jaw. When he kissed Dean, it was with the shocking sweetness of the pie still there, filling that spilled hot from Sam's mouth to Dean's. It was a little gross with saliva, but still sweet and unreasonably good. Dean groaned again around it, opening his mouth further.

Sam's hands were at his shoulders, then his waist, yanking him out of the chair by his belt loops. They stumbled around for a second, legs tangling with the chairs, before Sam backed him right into the cabinets.

"Gayer than gay," Dean mumbled, not unhappily.

"Take it like a man," Sam told him, and then his hands were at Dean's hips, and Dean was being _lifted_ , one minute on the ground, and the next seated on the counter. He glared.

" _Dude._ "

"What?" Sam said innocently, but his eyes were dark with something that Dean liked, and hell, it _was_ kind of hot, the strength in Sam's arms and man, he was really going for the pussy prize here, wasn't he?

Even on the counter, Sam was still of a height with him, a fact which Dean deeply resented, but he didn't protest the next kiss, deeper, less hesitant, Sam's tongue fucking right into his mouth. He leaned forward, hands coming up around Sam's sharp jaw, to grip his ridiculous hair, pulling him forward until their teeth clacked, dragging Sam right into the vee of his spread legs. Sam's clever fingers were already at his belt buckle, his zipper, every brush against the bulge of his cock beneath the denim sending him grunting and scrabbling forward a little, until he was almost off the counter. Sam helpfully pushed him back and yanked his jeans down with one move that startled an _oof_ out of Dean.

"Fucking - "

But Sam's hand was already on his cock, leaking through his boxers, and bobbing its way out. An arm around his waist, another at the waistband, and he was given another little lift, enough to slide the cloth past his hips and thighs until Dean was staring down at his own pubes and Sam focused on it like it was one of his books. He swallowed.

"Sam, uh - "

"Shut up, Dean."

Sam's voice, so goddamn deep when he wanted it to be, that focus that had made Dad so proud and come to bite him in the ass years later when it allowed Sam to just take off, hardly a glance back. Dean made a strained noise, tilting his hips up, but Sam's hand was there holding him in place as his mouth went to work, tongue swirling around the slit, then up and down the length of him, wet, slow as he pleased. Dean encouraged him with a hand in his hair, swearing enthusiastically at the ceiling tiles and the warm, flickering light.

Sam came in even closer, got his hands under Dean's ass, sort of tilted his hips up as Dean tried to spread his legs further, thighs straining, and then he was pushing Dean's balls aside, and Jesus. Shot of breath right against his hole, tempting. Dean almost came off the counter when Sam just worked his tongue in, the best kind of fucking, dirty, slow smearing strokes that made his cock jump. It seemed to go on for hours, Sam just taking his own sweet time, hands at Dean's balls every time he got too worked.

" _Goddamit_ , Sam," he finally managed, breathing through his mouth, a racer's quick breaths, unsteady

Sam paused and looked up, and his hair was feathered in a mess all around his face, cheeks sweetly flushed and mouth swollen.

"Dean," he said, as if just coming to some sort of revelation, and Dean made a noise, sliding his hips forward, wanting more. Sam ignored him. "I _cook_ on these surfaces. Oh my God, this is so - "

Dean managed to get one hand around Sam's jaw, hard.

"I swear to God, if you stop now, I will fucking _gut_ you."

He was painfully hard, all open and messy and empty where his legs met, sweat prickling at his neck, his back, and Sam, Sam -

\- just nodded and bent again, miraculously with no protests. He worked a finger in beside his tongue, stretching Dean with a sliding burn, scraping over all the tender spots inside of him until he whined, banging his head back against the cabinets, not caring, the sharp burst of pain just more fuel for his aching cock.

Sam wrestled him off the counter onto the floor, Dean's cock trapped between his sweaty belly and cold linoleum. He squirmed, only Sam's hand on his ass settling him back down.

"Gonna fuck you, Dean, God, look at you, all spread out for me, gonna - "

Get on with it, Dean thought, breathing onto the floor, his heart tripping crazily, and Sam did, the head popping in slowly as he adjusted himself, so Dean could feel every burning inch, arching his hips to take more, take it _deeper._ Sam made a noise between a grunt and a swear, snapping his hips forward, his hands crawling to Dean's hips to drag him into the thrust. He went willingly onto his hands and knees, the breath shot out of him with the feeling of Sam inside, always so fucking huge it was almost painful but so good. He came embarrassingly by the third or fourth thrust, Sam's hands still at his hips, the come stretching lazily between his stomach and the floor until Sam fucked him into it, smearing his own jizz all over his torso.

Sam pinned him close, arm around around his chest, hips moving more quickly as he lost control, shallow, rabbit thrusts, his voice arching up, teeth at the back of Dean's neck, fierce, boyish. Dean spread his legs as best as he could, taking it, pushing back, feeling the stretch of himself, Sam pressed all along his spine, hot, wonderfully alive, his voice warped into the rhythm of them, incoherent.

 

 

He woke up on the bedroom floor the next morning. They hadn't quite made it to the bed. His legs were sore, his arms, his neck tender from Sam's fucking _biting_ fetish, and the space between his legs swollen, still lazily leaking come and the lube Sam had thought of later, streaking dry all over his thighs. When he stretched, bones cracked alarmingly, muscles spent around them. Dean felt about eighty years old, dragging on a pair of threadbare sweats and hobbling into the kitchen, which looked nearly has bad as it had when he'd tried baking that one time. There was still half a pie out, cooling and probably drying throughout the night. Dishes in the sink, and chairs knocked over. He looked at the counter, and almost blushed thinking what was on it. And the floor. And the kitchen table. Jesus, they really did eat in here, didn't they? It was Sam's space, and Dean felt obscurely guilty looking at the carnage he - well they - had made of it. He bent carefully to get the spray and another wad of paper towels - they'd need to buy more this week, the apron going over his neck with barely a thought. It was way too early for bleach stains on his _skin_.

Sam found him after he'd just finished up with the table, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, but his mouth already wide with triumph. Dean swore, tossing the paper towels into the trash can. His hands smelled like Windex. He was shirtless and in an apron. This was a new low. Maybe he could still wheedle some pie out of it.

"You're _wearing_ it," Sam crowed, practically bouncing. He had pillow creases along one side of his face, dried drool on his chin, and hair that looked like it was ready to eat a small country.

"Shut up," Dean muttered, wondering if it would be admitting defeat to rip the thing off.

"You're wearing it," Sam repeated, really fucking annoyingly gleeful. Dean wanted to choke him with the strings. He turned away manfully, undoing them as quickly as possible, and throwing the thing into the counter, where it waited, all white and threatening.

"Didn't you say something about a hunt? I need to shoot something."

Sam laughed. "Oh, you're not getting out of this man. You're wearing my _apron._ "

"Was," Dean said desperately, " _was_ wearing your stupid fucking apron." He pushed at Sam's hands when he stepped close. "Shut the fuck up."

He eventually got Sam into a headlock, going for the ribs mercilessly until Sam just collapsed on the floor, long limbs sprawled everywhere, laughing, pants dragged down far enough that Dean could see the sharp cuts of his hips, the line of his pubes.

"It's nothing big, Dean, just a poltergeist, I think. House isn't even that old."

"I like poltergeists."

Sam gave him a weird look.

"What?"

He picked at something between his teeth, belched out apple pie breath. Sam scrambled to his feet first, offering a hand.

"Ok then, he-man, let's get this show on the road."

Dean snagged the rest of the pie before they blew out the door.

 

_~the end_


End file.
